


I Don't Believe in Ghosts (But I'm Afraid of Them)

by witchcraft97



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Angst, M/M, PTSD, Thiefshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:26:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2621627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchcraft97/pseuds/witchcraft97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marik is over-tired, he sees things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Believe in Ghosts (But I'm Afraid of Them)

When Marik is over-tired, he sees things. He’s absolutely sure it’s some form of post-traumatic stress disorder; one last ‘fuck you’ from his other self trying to ruin his life. Visions that haunt him in the dark. Neither Ishizu nor Odion know of course, it would only worry them, and Marik has no desire to be locked up in a mental institution. No, he’s had quite enough of being trapped for one lifetime, thanks. Instead he just gets on with his new quiet life, gritting his teeth and bearing it. He’s become much better at spotting when he’s hallucinating too. Since it started happening a year ago and he’d almost been arrested for punching a stranger who actually hadn’t said a word to him, he can usually tell now when the voices are real and when they’re not. Sometimes he gets it wrong though.

It helps that is doesn’t happen all the time; it really does depend on how busy he is and how much sleep he’s getting. Most days everything is normal. Terrifyingly so if he’s honest. After the Pharaoh’s spirit was returned to the afterlife and the Millennium Items destroyed, Marik and his siblings built themselves a horribly domestic life in Egypt. They got apartments of their own, jobs and friends. Marik ended up working in the archives at the city museum where he has shifts five days a week. Sometimes he picks up double shifts if he needs the money.

And that’s what usually tips him over the edge.

“Marik, you’re still here?” His supervisor pauses as he walks past the office door, buttoning his coat.

“Yeah,” Marik smiles, looking up from the paperwork he’s filing, “Mo called in sick and my TV broke so I’m gonna need to buy a new one, I figured two birds with one stone right?”

The man chuckles, “Ok, but don’t stay too late, make sure you get home and get some rest. Oh and don’t forget all the people who are dead because of you.”

He laughs again and Marik laughs with him.

“See you tomorrow, Marik.”

“Good night, sir.”

Marik sighs as soon as his supervisor has disappeared. Of course the man hadn’t actually said anything about the people Marik had killed, Marik is just tired. He rubs his eyes until he sees stars; he’s been working 14 hour days all week and it’s finally taken its toll. Quickly filing the last of his papers he decides to call it a day. He still has a half-hour bus ride to get home and he knows from experience that it’ll keep getting worse until he gets to bed.

He collects his coat and bag from the staff locker room, bidding good evening to the cleaners who are busy mopping up the blood that is running from the stab wounds in their own guts. Marik swallows and hurries outside into the fresh air.

A few deep breaths later and he has calmed again, the sharp city smells clearing his head enough to let him keep walking to the bus stop. It’s dark, and Marik tries his best not to notice as the deep shadows of the buildings stick to his feet. He hopes he won’t have to wait for his bus long.

The lights of restaurants and cafes are most welcome as he turns onto a tourist street. He shakes off the shadows, letting the chatter and bustle lull him as he strides along towards the bus stop at the street’s far end. People mill about and study neon signs, deciding where to eat, while delicious aromas fight for dominance in the air. Marik sighs which turns into a wide yawn.

Suddenly his shoulder bumps hard into an oncoming man and Marik whirls around apologetically.

“Oh I’m sorry…”

But he stops when he sees the unmistakable starfish crown of black and crimson hair, violet eyes framed by blonde bangs, above a sunny smile.

“Yugi?” Marik says incredulously.

“Huh? Watch where you’re going pal.” The stranger gives Marik a dirty look before turning to carry on his way.

Marik shakes his head, mentally scolding himself. Of course it wasn’t Yugi.

He hunches his shoulders and carries on his way, staring at the pavement in an effort to avoid seeing anything else that isn’t there. Blessedly, a bus pulls up at the stop just as Marik reaches it, and he hops on gratefully.

The driver looks up expectantly, “You enslaved your brother, he’s scarred for life because of you.”

Marik does a double take, “W-what?”

“I said do you have a ticket?” the bus driver repeats patiently.

Marik flashes his bus pass without meeting the driver’s eyes and quickly goes to take a seat. The bus isn’t full, but it is surprisingly busy considering the time of night. He slides into a space next to a business man in a suit and opposite an older couple, holding hands. He runs his own hands through his hair and tries to take deep breaths. Just one short bus ride, then he’d be home.

“You killed your mother you know.” The businessman says, turning a page of the newspaper he’s reading.

“And it wasn’t just her, was it my son?”

Marik’s head snaps up and it’s his father sitting opposite him. His eyes are cruel and cold and he’s holding it; the knife he used to carve ancient words into Marik’s flesh. There’s a horrible, wet blood stain on the front of his robes.

Marik cries out then, cringing so hard he almost falls out of his seat. It’s not real, he _knows_ it’s not real, but…

“Are you alright young man?” The woman opposite looks at him with genuine concern. Her husband and the businessman are frowning and several other people have looked around, but there’s just enough of Ishizu’s caring look in the woman’s gaze that Marik is able to tune them all out.

He nods, “Erm, yes, sorry. Long day.”

She smiles sympathetically. Marik fixes his eyes out the dark window and focuses on breathing. Things whisper in his ears but with a fierce will he keeps them at bay, determined to _just get home_.

When the bus finally reaches his stop he stumbles off, only a short walk from safety now. He starts towards his apartment, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Please, I swear, I don’t know anything! Please don’t hurt me!”

Marik barely spares a glance at the ring of purple robed figures across the street, surrounding a man on his knees. They were almost certainly going to hurt him unless he told them what they wanted to hear. Marik knows because those were the orders he’d given, a long time ago. The man’s screams seem to chase him down the road.

Marik increases his pace. The shadows are sticking to his feet again but this time they fan out around him as if a hundred pairs of legs accompany him, a hundred footsteps mirroring his own. He can hear them, all around; his parents, his siblings, his Rare Hunters, his victims.

“You killed me.”  
“You did this to us.”  
“Your orders Master?”  
 _“You killed me.”_

Marik whimpers and speeds up again, but the footsteps speed up too.

“You’ll never win Marik!”  
“We’ve found the boy Yugi, Master.”  
 _“You killed me!”_  
“Hello, Marik.”

The last speaker sends Marik into a full on run. The dark, twisted echo of his own voice laughing as his apartment building looms ahead. Marik takes the stairs two at a time, the footsteps practically thundering now, chasing him, hunting him…

Marik fumbles with his keys, fingers trembling as he struggles to unlock his front door. Finally it yields and he just about falls inside with a desperate gasp. All at once the footsteps are gone, the nightmares of his past cut off as he closes the door and leans back gratefully against it, shutting his eyes.

“Rough day at the office?” A low voice murmurs.

Marik’s eyes snap open again, but his gaze softens as it falls on the white haired figure who saunters out of the kitchen.

“You have no idea.” Marik answers with a tired smile, the sight of the man in front of him as welcome as anything he has ever seen. He sheds his coat and lets it and his bag drop to the floor.

Bakura gives them a look but doesn’t comment, choosing instead to walk into Marik’s waiting arms. Marik pulls him close and buries his face in Bakura’s hair. He smells like washing powder and smoke, and it’s so comforting and familiar that a fresh wave of drowsiness washes over Marik. Bakura’s usual blue and white stripe t-shirt is soft under Marik’s hands.

“Mmm how was your day?” Marik asks, forcing himself to pull back from his partner lest he fall asleep against his shoulder standing in the hallway.

Bakura gives him a crooked smile, reaching up gently to touch his face. “There’s food in the kitchen if you want it.” Bakura nods in the direction he appeared from, but Marik shakes his head, careful not to dislodge Bakura’s palm now cupping his cheek.

“I just want to rest,” he replies, “I missed you.”

Bakura tilts his head in understanding, and Marik knows he _does_ understand. He was always the only one who understood Marik. Back in Battle City there was a reason they’d been such good partners, and later during the finals, such good lovers too. Marik had never had to try with the white-haired thief; Bakura accepted him exactly as he was. And Marik had fallen in love with him for that.

Bakura leads the way into the living room, letting Marik past him so Marik can drop onto the couch first. He immediately props his legs up on the coffee table and stretches, sinking back into the soft cushions with a groan. Bakura chuckles.

“You look awful,” He smirks, “how tired are you exactly?”

“Thanks, love you too.” Marik scoffs, but he can’t complain as Bakura swings a leg over him and settles in his lap, knees either side of Marik’s thighs. He’s warm and heavy and he kneads his hands into Marik’s shoulders in a way that makes him groan again and forget that Bakura asked him a question.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bakura answers for him, voice dark and velvet, “you’re home now.”

“What are you thinking?” Marik asks with a lazy smile. His eyes are half lidded with an intoxicating combination of tiredness and pleasure, but he knows the other so well that he can’t miss the note in Bakura’s voice. Marik settles his hands on Bakura’s hips, pushing up his shirt just a little to touch soft pale skin there.

“Nothing.” Bakura replies, but his chocolate eyes glitter as he leans forward. His hands still on Marik’s shoulders as their noses brush.

“You know I’m really not sure I believe you.” Marik breathes, gaze flicking from Bakura’s eyes to his lips and back again.

Bakura just smirks; his characteristic gesture leaving a curious pain in Marik’s chest. But then finally Bakura is completing the motion and he presses their lips together.

It’s soft and tender and so achingly good that it takes Marik’s breath away. It feels like air when he’s been underwater for days. It feels like he was broken and someone finally nudged the pieces back together. He pulls Bakura closer, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, and he feels Bakura smiling against his mouth.

It ends too soon, but Bakura is stroking his face again and he rests his forehead against Marik’s. “My thief, my golden thief.” He sighs.

Marik is dizzy from love or tiredness, he’s not sure which at this point. “Take me to bed?” he whispers. In that moment he wants nothing more than for Bakura to hold him as he goes to sleep.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

There’s a beat of silence and it feels like a cold draft has swept through the room. Marik frowns, feeling his forehead crease against Bakura’s, “Why not?”

“Oh Marik, you know why.”

Marik’s heart seems to be beating in his throat now and Bakura is looking at him so very sadly. He pulls away, sitting back on Marik’s lap.

The next thing Marik says takes every bit of strength he has.

“You’re not real, are you?”

Bakura shakes his head, apology written all over his usually stern, angular features.

“But I can feel you, I can –”

“Can you?” Bakura cuts in.

Marik desperately tightens his grip on Bakura’s hips, but there’s nothing there. Only the rough fabric of his own jeans where his fists rest on his thighs.

“No.” Marik’s voice is a croak and tears are suddenly leaking from his exhausted eyes.

Bakura gives him such a gentle look that Marik can’t take it. He closes his eyes as the tears course free now down his cheeks. Of course he’s not real; Bakura died the same night as the Pharaoh.

Marik slumps sideways now that there is no body on top of his, burying his face in one of the sofa cushions and choking out a sob.

“Shhh,” that same, familiar voice hushes, “sleep now. Sleep now.”

It doesn’t sound real any more though. Of every terror he faced this night, every nightmare of his past, this is by far the most cruel. His mundane, lonely, normal life claws at Marik’s eyelids as he gives up. His mind begins to switch off even as his cheeks still glisten from crying. As his body finally gives in to exhaustion and sleep claims him, one more whisper drifts brokenly into his awareness.

“I love you.”


End file.
